A Calamity of Cards
by Spectrespecs02
Summary: As if being the daughter of the infamous Clown King and Queen of Crime wasn't hard enough, Lucy Quinn finds herself facing off against a vengeful Bat, warring a mob boss with an umbrella, murdering far too many to plead innocent and trying to keep a gang of super-powered psychotics under control. Crazy doesn't begin to describe this girl...
1. Chemicals and Clowns and Crazies Oh My

**AN: Hello fellow geeks. This is my first time publishing antmything on this site, though I have frequented it for many, many years. And yes, in saying that I might as well have held up a sign saying "this is a piece of shit, don't waste your time!" But please do stick around. I mean, I thought it was good...**

 **Though this is rated M it's not for the reason you probably searched that for if you know what I'm saying but it's pretty sweary and violent with quite a few triggering things like domestic abuse and all the other stuff that comes along with Joker and Harley Quinn. If that effects you, you know the drill. But without further ado...**

"Gotham City: home to villainy, treachery and insanity. Evil lurks around every corner; down every darkened alleyway. It seeps from every crack in the filthy pavement. It corrupts everyone it touches. Crime is like a disease and this city is sick to the core with it. I would know, I see it every day. The infection flows through its veins. Gotham is a city built on crime. Without it, what is Gotham? Crime is the lifeblood and it bleeds onto every inch of it. Right and wrong blur. Anyone could be the next mob boss; the next supercriminal; the next serial killer. The sickness of Gotham City thrives in the darkness inside its boundaries. It is not beyond curing but only if someone dares to do it. The city needs someone to fight for it. Someone to exact Justice; take vengeance. Someone to sit on rooftops and brood. A whole shit-load of brooding. Gotham needs a hero. Someone to do what those idiot cops can't do. Gotham needs a vigilante. Gotham needs me. I am the night. The dark night... knight I mean... I am Batman. I dress in cosplay every night and punch people because I apparently have nothing better to do and a skull as thick as shit. I'm a real no-fun dumbass really. I can't wait until the Joker kills me in the most brutal way humanly conceivable because I never feel emotion and it must suck balls to be me."

"So," I prompt after a moment's notice, knocking my voice back up an octave. "Did I sound like Batman?"

I come down from the edge of the roof where I'd previously perched, looking down, broodingly at the dark, empty street below and turn to the audience.

My onlookers consist of one man. He is nearly shirtless, tied to a chair and gagged. He might be crying but it might just be the bad lighting from the lamppost below. He, in response, can do little other than thrash against his restraints. I stifle a grin; I do love watching them squirm. As I meet his eyes, he only fights his restraints harder, fear boiling under his sweat-covered skin.

"Not to brag or anything... ah screw it," I giggle, batting at him with my hand. "I am bragging. I happen to be a world-class impressionist. Trust me, it's not just extremely impressive, it's also a really useful skill set to have when one is on a lifelong quest to kill Batman. Just a imagine: Batsy's about town when suddenly he hears Robin calling for help. He turns the corner and BAM! Straight into a grenade. 'Course I've never been allowed to get rid of the Bat problem that way... But I could! Fun, huh?"

The man is noticeably crying from fear now. I lick my lips at the delicious sight of his demise. He tries to scream something though it's muffled by his makeshift gag.

"What was that?" I say, hopping over to the chair where he sits. The man fights his ties harder as I advance but doesn't resist as I reach down theatrically and tear the duck tape from his mouth. It pulls away with a painful ripping sound and leaves a large red strip across his face.

He looks up at me with enough unbridled hatred and terror to make my mouth water. Then spits at me enough to make me cringe. Then he headbutts me. Hard. In the face.

"You are fucking insane you sick, cunt , you-"

I quickly slam a new layer back onto his face from the diminished roll and tut at his language and shrugging off the pain in my head. "Talk like that'll make your girl

roll over in her grave. Well, she doesn't have one, she's still staining the carpet downstairs."

At that I throw my head back and laugh up to the empty night sky. The sound is whipped up by the wind and carried across the dark canopy of Gotham City.

"It's been fun," I smile at him, sweetly as my cackle comes to an abrupt end. "Really... I'm almost sad I have to kill you. You made such a good listener."

At this his face animates with a newfound terror. He struggles further against his restraints, thrusting his body back and forth violently in a vain last-ditch effort to break free. His lame attempt proves futile over the layers of tape that bind his arms and legs. I laugh at his muffled screams and, waving kindly at him, gently push the leg of his chair with my foot. Gravity- a bitch- sends him toppling over the edge of the roof. After a swift descent, he hits the ground head-first at high speed. Upon impact, his head shatters like a bird's egg and his blood spills across the pavement, painting the street red. Good thing the roads are empty at this time or else someone would be spending a fortune on dry-cleaning tomorrow.

I laugh loudly again.

 _Good job, Lucy_ coos a voice in my ear.

"Aww, thanks. It was nothing really."

 _You're_ _still_ _a_ _stupid_ , _useless_ , _good_ - _for_ - _nothing_ _pile_ _of_ _sh-_

I clamp my hands over my ears, frowning. Always so mean, that one. If they don't have anything nice to say, they ought to just crawl back out of my ear. Not that I find their existence completely inconvenient; they've been known to give mildly helpful, though somewhat questionable advice. Plus, I suppose it isn't so awful to have company in the dark empty void of madness.

Content that the voices are settled, I flip my wrist in front of my face to find my watch reads 3:17am. I'd better get back to the task at hand or risk failure. And a black eye. I've already wasted time on that guy.

It wasn't even part of the job to take him out. All I know is that he was downstairs necking some night shifter and disrupting the peace and quiet. As anyone would, I figured it would be fun to stab his girlfriend repeatedly in front of him until I achieved the psychotic, blood-stained look I was going for and then use him to practice my monologue on. After all, it's not often I get let out to play these days and Daddy said that if he heard the words "I'm Batman" uttered under his roof one more time, he would personally garrotte me with my own hair.

Giving one last glance at the crippled corpse below me, I snigger and turn on my heels, skipping toward the door back down.

Before I turn he handle to enter the building, I check my appearance in the reflection on the glass. My hair, purple, has retained its volume despite the drizzle, though the clown makeup on my face has smudged slightly. I try to smooth the red lipstick back into the exaggerated smile but only succeed in ruining it further. The curved up lips droop down on one side in a large line that stretches to my chin. Shrugging in surrender, I puff up my red tutu, load my gun and strut back indoors.

I'm immediately met with five panicked night staff, trying to make an escape. At the sight of me, they freeze. I simply beam, allowing them to take in my terrifyingly brilliant appearance and my youthful, clownish face. They've probably never seen a child covered in a grown woman's blood before.

"What are you doing here, little girl?" Asks one guy. It's cute that he's concerned for me. He'd probably like to believe that I'm here by mistake or something. That I'm innocent and alone and scared. They couldn't be more wrong.

"Having fun," I chirp.

The others begin to look uneasy, though he persists.

"You need to get out of here. Do you know who's downstairs?"

"My Daddy, silly." I playfully tap his nose before turning solemn. "But he's not going to be very happy with you."

With that, I grab him by the neck, yank him towards me and push the barrel of my gun against his skull. The others immediately panic but a quick shout of "move and he dies" has them all rooted to the spot. I order them to kneel with their hands above their heads. Ah, good old human loyalty and comradeship.

"Excellent," I say, looking down at them and smiling sweetly.

"Please, let me go," sobs the man under my grip. Great, another crier.

I raise my finger to my chin in fake contemplation. "Well, if you insist."

Before he can let out a sigh of relief, I snap his neck harshly and shove him to the side.

One woman screams.

I turn my gun to them, some now crying too. "Anyone wanna see my body count per second?" They look so terrified. Like animals about to be slaughtered that have just realised their fate. The woman at the back even looks kind of like a pig. I wonder if her blood will look like pig blood.

I laugh until tears stream from my eyes and further destroy my makeup.

"Who are you?" Breathes one man, breaking the silence.

My laughter fades. "You've never heard of me before?" Silence. "You don't know who I am?" I sigh. "Years of homicides and terror attacks amount to nothing. This stinks." I look up at them again. "Joker's Daughter, anyone?" No one responds, though the air seems to tighten at the sound of his name.

"Really?" I cry, exasperated, shoulders sagging.

"Y- you're with them?" Says the man on the left.

Bloody genius.

"Correct!" I praise. "Grand prize goes to... you!" I shoot him six times in the head.

The others gasp or cry out in horror, then turn and run. Before they can make it two metres they're all dead on the floor.

Patting my gun, fondly, I pull out my phone. There is a flash as I snap a picture of the five corpses and the familiar bing as I send it to my Mom. A moment later, as I reach the bottom of the corridor, she responds. "Where the hell are you? We've been so worried about you. We haven't heard from Frost and we thought you were dead. Come back down right now or else I'll-"

I roll my eyes and toss my phone behind me. I'll get a new one tomorrow.

What was I supposed to do now?

 _Get to the damn lab._

 _Idiot._

"Oh, right!"

Skipping slightly, I move down the corridor, ponytail bouncing with my springy movement, reloading my gun again. There are obvious signs of some kind of squabble here: bullet holes in the walls; blood on the floor; a black-clad gangster dead on the floor. Noting it's not one of ours, I kick him in the side as I pass. The sign above his head boldly reads "lab 4 this way".

"Was it lab 4 or lab 5?"

Four, you idiot!

"Thanks!"

I continue down the winding halls until I reach the lab.

"Ding! You have reached your destination!" I say and kick through the doors, blatantly ignoring the toxicity warnings.

Inside is a quivering old scientist in a hazmat suit. He clutches his papers to his chest as I enter and begins to sob.

"Hello!" I chirp.

"Please," he begs, shrinking down. "This is my life's work. Leave us alone."

I snatch the papers from his hand and eye them curiously. "Hmmm," I murmur, theatrically tapping my chin. "What do we have here?" The old man is sobbing louder now, cowering away from my small, innocent self. "Blah, blah, blah. Science, science. Extremely deadly? Oooh!" I grin at him. "Neat!"

There is a sweet sound of ripping paper as I tear his research into tiny pieces. The scientist howls in misery and collapses to the floor, yelling incoherent obscenities to the heavens.

"Now what's the stuff called?" I mutter. Turning over my hand, I see the words scrawled over my palm:

"MDMA."

I scout the room until finding the drawer with the same label. I yank it open and grab one of the test tubes from the many rows. I beam in pride at my achievement. This is the first time I've been given any proper missions. And I did it alone, too.

Of course, before this point I had to shoot all the henchmen that my Dad had ordered to go with me. It was, strictly speaking, Johnny Frost who was in charge of the extraction job but I figured it's less impressive as a group effort. What more could make my father prouder than his only living heir taking up the family business?

I've been waiting for such an opportunity for months. My parents have gotten over-protective recently, much to my dismay. It's been very annoying, being me, to get stuck with the "wait by the door" or underage getaway driver jobs when I live for the violent adrenaline rush of the battlefield. This was supposed to purely be my moment of victory is interrupted by another bought of crying from the professor as he scrambles around in his pile of paper. I scowl.

"Now where's that extremely deadly stuff?"

When I leave the room the scientist is howling in pain again, now from the corrosives burning his face off.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I turn around to the source is the voice behind me. I thought I'd be alone with the sounds of gunshots here but apparently I'm not the only one in the foyer. As I spin around in the chair, I'm met with the glaring face of Johnny Frost.

"Well, I was about to see how fast I could go in one of these wheely chairs but it'll be more fun with two people. We can race to the receptionist's body and back."

"I mean, what the hell do you think you were doing earlier? Suddenly, we're about to move into the lab block when I hear gunshots. I turn around and you're there, covered in the goons' blood and attack me. Me! I changed your diapers and you attack me! Next thing I know, I wake up with a god almighty bruise in the back of my head and no idea where you are. Your father would kill me if I lost you. I start panicking, naturally, thinking maybe you'd been killed or kidnapped and I had to follow your damn trail of bodies up here. And here you are wi-"

"Frost!" I cut him off, tiring quickly of his condescension. Holding up the test tube, I gloat: "I got it."

His frown immediately morphs into a grin. He too, reaches into his pocket to pull out another batch of the stuff. "So did I."

I can't help but laugh at the hilarity of coincidence.

"Frosty old boy, I'll make a psycho out of you yet."

He eyes me suspiciously, purposely frowning. I ignore him.

"Race you down?" I offer.

"Hell no," he scoffs.

"Aw, come on!" I plead. "We never have any fun!"

"And for good reason." He chides. "Your idea of fun includes throwing yourself and other people into ridiculously dangerous situations for your own amusement. I ain't sticking my neck on the line to keep you happy."

"Hey. That's a little unfair. I also like to throw... okay, point taken."

"You're a menace to society."

"At your service."

He rolls his eyes slightly, though with a wary fondness that I only know from him. "Now give me that stuff before you hurt someone. Or yourself."

He holds out his hand as I slap the contents of my own onto it. As I shuffle backward, he peels away his fingers and discovers only a bullet. He blinks. I grin. As he looks up to grab for me, I lash out with my foot, kicking his wrist, sending his fingers splaying. As the vial slips out of his grip, I reach out and snatch it. Giving another swift kick to his ankles, I run toward the elevator. I press the button repeatedly as I observe the dazed Frost make to stand. He spots me making a getaway and attempts to chase after me but stumbles with dizziness. As the elevator arrives, I slip inside, press the ground floor button and wave sweetly as the doors slide shut.

"But Puddin!"

"Shut it Harley! You know what I think about eating on the job."

I push open the door to find my parents engaged in argument over a large slice of cake. Harley, who clearly found it in the cafeteria, clutches it protectively against her chest with half of it smeared around her mouth as she chews a bite. Daddy simply glares at her again, a final warning, and she turns to drop it onto a desk, but not before taking another chunk out of it.

"Hiya!" I say, hopping over to stand next to my father.

"Lucy!" Greets Mom through a mouthful of dessert. Typical. She runs over to pull me into a suffocating bear hug, no doubt transferring the numerous crumbs onto me.

"We were so worried about ya!" She coos. "Out there all alone with psychopaths runnin' around."

"Not to mention all those other guys!" Dad smiles.

I laugh at this, only making Harley pull me in tighter. For a small woman she sure has good grip.

"I happen to have had complete confidence in you, kid," chirps Dad, patting me on the back. He looks around, thinking. "Where are the boys?"

"Umm... funny story..."

"Lu!" Scolds Harley, releasing me from her python-like grip to give me a reprimanding stare. "What have I told ya about killing the goons!"

"Only do it in private," I mumble.

"Exactly!" Says J, waggling his glowed finger at me with a tut. "What will people think if we go around killing the hired help?"

"That we're mad?"

"Mad, bonkers, insane, round the bend, lost our marbles! Nothing untrue, but bad for business."

He ruffles my hair, slightly condescendingly, pressing down just hard enough to be painful. Then grins whilst I try not to look disheartened.

I quickly shrug it off, remembering my achievement.

"It doesn't matter, anyway. Look what I got!" I dish into my gun holster and pull out the pair of vials. I raise them above my head, before bowing smugly. Not a second later does Daddy pull me upright by the shirt and snatch my prize from my grip. He grins hungrily at them as he tucks them safely into his blazer pocket.

"Do you know what this is?" He says, turning to me again. His face is alight with a newfound joviality; his eyes glinting with the spark of madness which he does so well.

"Science shit," I offer.

"Even better than that. This is Methylenedioxymethamphetamine; ecstasy; the final ingredient to my Joker Toxin."

"Oh."

He turns, raising his eyebrows at me (well, where his eyebrows should be- I'm sure presuming that he's raising his eyebrows, though he could be having facial spasms). "Oh what?" He snaps.

"That's it? It's not like... a highly poisonous chemical weapon that burns your face off and makes your blood run out of your eyeholes?"

He glares. "Is it not impressive enough for you that I can single handedly manufacture a chemical that has brilliantly murdered hundreds of people before you were even born? Does it bore your majesty?"

"No, no. Just, couldn't we have gotten it from an Italian guy in a hoodie down crime alley?"

Once again, his face contorts from a scowl into his signature, manic grin. "But where's the fun in that?" He breaks into laughter, mom following suit. I too join in after a moment, unable to resist the infectiousness of the sound. Our harmonising laughter echoes around the room, interrupted only by the door swinging open, loudly.

Frost, heaving for breath, bursts in. As he is met by all three of our guns pointing at him, he holds up his hands.

"Frost! Where the hell have you been?" Says Dad with a grunt.

"I was-"

He catches sight of me behind his boss. I quietly make enough violent hand gestures for him to understand that I've been the epitome of good behaviour for him and he will wake up in the morning without a knife in his throat.

He straightens up with a small cough. "Checking the perimeter, boss. West exit is all clear for a quick getaway."

"Cops?"

"Not arrived yet."

"Bats?" He asks with a grin.

"No, sir."

His smile falls. "Well, that's disappointing."

"Well ya can't expect him ta show up outside of Gotham, can ya, Puddin?"

Not a second later is Harley's arm on her "puddin"'s shoulder snatched into the python-like grip of his gloved hand. She shows pain on her face only for a moment long enough to know it hurts, remaining unreadable as her wrist is bent backwards. Joker's eyes flick to mine, watching this whole affair and he releases her.

"At least we'll be able to watch the place go up in flames without any distracting Bat signals in the sky," he says, beginning to walk out. I follow immediately and after a pause the sound of Mom's clicking heels catch up to me and she links my arm. She's smiling. I take it as a cue to smile as well.

As we exit the building, a few stragglers of the remaining henchmen hurry out behind us. They know what happens if they linger for too long.

The building bursts into flames.

Frost opens the doors to the purple lambo out front. Me and mom climb in but Joker stays outside and pulls out his phone, grinning furiously as he makes the call.

"Penguin! I'm terribly sorry to break the news to you but I'm afraid all the goons you just sent in to interrupt my heist will all be calling in dead tomorrow. You see they appear to have been caught in a mysterious fire and they won't be recovering before 9am." He laughs fully now, allowing the giggles that kept slipping out whilst he spoke to escape into a cackle. I giggle too. He sees me and his expression darkens. He's more firm. More serious. More sincere in his threat. "I told you you would pay, didn't I?"

 **AN: Phew, got that uploaded with only a minor falling out with the mobile document manager. This will be the first in a multiple story series. I am going quite AU with this by the way and show blantant disregard for most of the current DCEU, including (shock, horror) suicide squad. Let's face it, it's not great. I do plan to do some suicide squad-y stuff later on so bear with. However, I imagine the characters in the style of those movies. Anyway, please review. Feedback is much appreciated!**

 **-Spectre Specs xx**


	2. Frosty the Henchman

The tires screech across the road as the car turns an abrupt corner. The roaring of the engine as the vehicle barrels down the narrow streets is accompanied by vicious laughter, harmonising to the chaos. I, sat in the backseat with no seatbelt, find myself violently thrown into the window with the force of the movement, forehead slamming painfully into the glass. The sudden dizziness and pain sends me laughing along with my parents. Daddy, noticing my shriek as I slid across the seats, takes it upon himself to swerve the car from left to right in a frenzy and I'm once again hurtling around in the back with every twist. The car jolts to the right. My head slams into the opposite window, further force in the same direction drives my skull painfully into the surface. A lurch forward has me crashing face first into the back of my mom's seat. Another swift tilt and I'm sprawled across the back. We speed over a bump and my head smashes into the ceiling. Every lurch of my stomach and quickening beat of my heart has me shrieking in delight and hilarity; every flash of pain and blindness has me laughing hysterically. The laughter from daddy only increases with my own, satisfied that his troublemaking has paid off.

We drive home like we always do, speeding down the night time streets of Gotham like the madmen we are. With the screeching of the tires and the loud purple paint job, the lambo is practically a bat-magnet but that's just the way we like it. Although the target of our previous endeavour was Penguin, I think that Dad is disappointed that his greatest rival was a no-show when we lit the place up. We'd be making considerably less effort with the drive if he'd had his daily dose of Batman. When his enemy doesn't show up, especially after going to such effort, it leaves him with all that adrenaline that would otherwise have been punched out of him.

The car, after many twists and turns and purposeful wrong directions, stood with a screech outside an old warehouse down on the water front. It's one of many lined up along here, each as derelict and decrepit as the next. Many on the stretch are still in use, some used in storage, shipment or manufacturing. This one however has been abandoned for some time. Funni Bones Shipping having gone out of business years ago, the building has fallen into a state of decay. It currently has damp in most corners, cobwebs in the rest and a small section on its west face that's about to collapse.

I step out of the car, take a deep breath of the pungent air and sigh. "Home sweet home."

The moment the door is open I'm rushing inside and collapsing on the couch.

"Shoes on the carpet," grumbles Mom.

Sighing, I sit up and attempt to pull the black boots off me. My swollen feet and tired arms make the process difficult. Laughing at my lame struggle, Mom teeters over to me on her 5 inch heels to help. It's a wonder she can walk in those things, let alone fight, yet somehow she manages to do both and look amazing at the same time. Even after going through childbirth, she has retained her good looks and perfect body to the point that she looks barely older than 30. In fact, I don't even know how old she actually is; whenever I ask her she essentially tells me to piss off.

Maybe eternal youth is just another side-effect of the skin-bleaching acid that covers both my parents. The acid christening is a sort of rite of passage in our family and one I have yet to partake in. I examine my own pasty, bruised arm in comparison to my mother's. It's pale but not in an attractive way and rather than the marble-finish that Harley possesses, it's dry in places and red from the amount of places I got punched earlier. Thankfully, the woman coats me in enough creams to keep the acne from spreading across my face, though the amount of face-paint that goes on there surely can't help. Even coating myself in as much white makeup as possible, I can't hope to come close.

Eventually, with quite a bit of tugging, my shoe comes loose and flies off as I kick out, landing still very much on the carpet. Harley glares at me.

"Y'know, I've been unfortunate enough to witness the terrible acts committed on that rug. I think that boots are the last thing on it that you want to worry about."

She barks a laugh and shoves my arm playfully. Dad, appearing out of the corner, leans down and whispers something undoubtedly dirty into her ear, prompting a sultry giggle. The pair share a look, a smile and are gone, without a "goodnight".

I roll my eyes. The pair of them couldn't be less subtle. I've heard that having children was supposed to ruin your sex life but apparently they didn't get the memo. It's constant. I had to move my bedroom away from theirs so I could finally sleep at night without hearing them through the walls. It sickens me to think what crazy things they're about to do to each other up there.

I look up lazily at the clock, dragging my head out of the pillow. It's 5 AM. I'd go to bed if I wouldn't have to go within such close vicinity to where my parents are screwing like rabbits.

After careful debate I decide against any movement for the next hour and flick on the TV.

Following an overly thorough weather report (rain: surprise surprise), the news anchor receives a breaking story.

"Tonight, after weeks of inactivity, the Joker has struck again. This time at a scientific research lab just outside of Gotham City, known to manufacture dangerous chemical weapons, much like the Clown Prince's own "Joker Venom". When arriving at the sight of his latest heist, Joker was met by men sent by Gotham's Crime Boss: Penguin. In the fight that ensued, it is estimated that at least 30 people have been killed, though not all bodies have been retrieved. The building was promptly set on fire, destroying the entire complex and its two neighbouring buildings as the flames grew. The Joker has since left, accompanied by the infamous Harley Quinn and Right-Hand Man, Johnny Frost. More from this story as it progresses. Now over to Kelly for World News."

"What the Hell!"

Harley Quinn and Johnny Frost. Period. What the hell is wrong with the news? Do they know I was there? Do they even know I exist?

 _It's because you're useless._

 _You don't do anything anyway._

 _Hahahahahaha._

"Shut up!"

 _Maybe if you actually did some work instead of screwing around all the time people would care._

 _I don't care._

 _You're worthless._

 _Hahahahahahahahahahaha_.

"Shut up!" I screech, pounding my fists into the sides of my skull.

My head goes quiet. In the background, Kelly from the news drones in about Iraq. I grab the remote from beside me and hurl it at the TV with all my strength. It crashes into the screen and it goes black.

Seething, I bury my head into the cushions and scream furiously.

It's then that the door opens. With it comes a hammering of rain that drenches the carpet and in walks Frost and the boys. They're all soaking wet and miserable. The goons immediately traipse out down the corridor, leaving only Johnny and I. He runs his hand through his long, silvery hair and sighs, then grabs a can of beer from the box by the couch.

"Gimme," I mutter, stretching out my hand toward him.

He gives me a look. "You're fourteen. That's too young to drink."

"Not in France."

He stares down at the can for a minute before giving in and tossing it to me. I catch it in my outstretched hand and immediately take a swig. A moment later Frost slumps down next to me.

"What happened to the TV?"

"They started it," I grumble.

He sighs. "What's wrong, kid?"

I pout. "What's wrong is that no one knows who the fuck I am. I mean, I've barely met a person who's heard of me, I get zero news coverage and no credit for anything I do. That heist was a group effort, and I basically carried the whole operation."

"Debatable."

"It's like I don't exist, Johnny. I'm supposed to rule Gotham one day and not one person in it has a clue!"

He sips his drink, thoughtfully. "Is this to do with-?"

"No."

"It's just you've been dealing with a lot of... stuff lately."

"Frost, all I want to do is do what my parents do. You know that. If I could just have a shot at proving myself..."

We sit in silence and sip our drinks for a minute, before I swallow and restart my rant. Frost sighs.

"It's not even as if I haven't already proved myself. I mean, what about that time with the mobster and the pencil or with the cops and the high wire. Or tonight! That took a lot of effort!" I slump in my chair, crushing the empty can in my fist. "No one gets how hard it is being me."

"You being the walking teenage cliché?"

I smirk. "Just one that kills people."

A smile pulls at the edge of his lips. Frost can pretend to be the stone-faced, emotionless stoic that everyone thinks him to be but I appear to be his soft-spot. I would exploit it and kill him in a moment of weakness if I wasn't so fond of his dead humour. The man keeps me grounded. Though that doesn't prevent me from kicking his ass.

"Sorry about that, by the way," I say, pointing to the prominent bruise on his forehead from when I knocked him out.

"It's fine. I'll sedate you next heist."

I scoff. "I'd like to see you try."

"You and me. Right now. Let's see who wins."

"No... everything hurts."

"Good call," he grunts. "I would've beaten you anyway."

"That's funny."

We go quiet again. He finishes his drink as I prod my nose, trying to determine is the head-butt I received earlier broke the bone. I come to the conclusion that if it's not crooked I don't care.

Frost goes to reach for the TV remote, before remembering that it's lodged in the TV screen and scowls.

"What did the TV do so bad to you?"

"Have you seen the fucking news?"

"What did they say?"

"Nothing. They said nothing."

He shoots me a questioning look.

"Nothing about me. Even you got recognition. You didn't even do anything except get knocked out."

Frost grumbles unintelligibly before saying, "I don't know at what point my job went from killing people to listening to teenage girl drama but it's not what I'm paid to do. I knew I should've asked for the promotion."

Promotion.

I have an idea.

 _Wow, took you a while to figure that one out you dumb bi-_

"Thanks Frost." I clap him on the shoulder and stand, straighten my jacket and head upstairs.

"What do I do about the TV?" Johnny yells after me.

Thankfully, when I arrive on the first floor landing, there is no explicit noises coming from the bedroom down the hall. In fact, it is deadly silent. My breath catches. I pause in the doorway, eyes closed. I count to ten. When I open them, my mother is lying on the bed, naked body covered by the silken bedsheets. Her chest heaves in sleep. I release my breath.

When I tear my eyes from her, I notice him staring at me. Dad stands in the middle of the room, thankfully clothed. He's looking at me. When I step out into the corridor he follows, silently slipping from the room with animal grace and closing the door behind him.

"What do you want?" He cuts to the chase. He masks the edge of concern in his voice by staring me down as if I had interrupted him doing something of utmost importance. In reality, he was likely just stood there watching Mom sleep as if this was a crappy vampire romance.

"I have a business proposal for you." I smile confidently, standing straight like I imagine a proper businessman would.

He raises his "eyebrows".

"Give me a promotion."

"Give you a promotion? A promotion from what? Being my daughter?" His lips twist menacingly.

"If you want... I guess."

"And what exactly would this "promotion" entail?"

I try to look more confident in the face of his unreadable expression. He's smiling. That could mean anything. "I'd get to do more heists. Some independently. And maybe... maybe once every... two years I could possibly, maybe fight Batman...?" I await some form of physical reprimand but it doesn't come.

He pauses and looks over me in my dirty, bloodied and bruised state. "I'll think about it."

I contain myself just long enough for the door to click shut before doing a silent victory dance. The door reopens just as I'm cartwheeling down the hall. Dad's face appears out the crack. He looks at me suspiciously as I straighten up.

"Get a shower. You look like shit."

I salute, breathless as the door snaps shut again.

All too gladly, I drag my feet over to the door at the end of the hall, take in the heaps of clothes and papers strewn across the floor and flip down onto where I'm hoping the bed is. Sleep comes immediately. I dream of rain and knives and screaming and then nothing.

AN: Thank you to Killer Jack for reviewing and stephannieteresa1 for following. I plan to update at least once a week, schedule abiding, but I have no exact dates in mind. Once again, feedback is appreciated.

-SpectreSpecs02


	3. Crazy Plant Lady

"How are you?" asks Pamela Isley as she pours me steaming herbal tea into a green, ceramic mug. She is, as she has been for hours, staring concerned at the prominent purple bruise on my forehead. I know she thinks that my father did it and, honestly, it wouldn't be too outrageous of a theory. It's often that I appear at Ivy's door in the rain with no explanation and a split lip. Every time I've done that she'll manage to keep quiet for an hour while she makes me something to eat, then, unable to keep it in any longer, begin an enraged rant about my father's "abuse". Then I have to listen to her call me out on bullshit for defending him. Overall, the whole circle drives me back into the hands of my father just to get away from her. I'd reassure her that my injury is only from some loser at the last heist, but in bringing it up, she'd undoubtedly recycle her old, well-rehearsed argument on how me and Mom should come and live with her. I'm all for a good verbal battle but today I can't be bothered. I'm running on four hours sleep.

"I'm fine," I chirp, sipping at the hot drink. I spit it back into the mug a second later. What kind of flavour is that? "How's eco-terrorism treating you?"

She scowls. "Don't call it that. You make it sound like I'm doing a bad thing."

"Sure. Because using an abstract from a rare wild rose to produce a lethal toxin and incapacitate a man for organising the digging up of some land is totally acceptable."

"Dent had it coming," she jokes. "And its going great by the way. In fact, I have a gala to crash in three months. Mr Wayne is arranging to extend the orphanage into its garden's, though he can't build anywhere if he's dead, can he? If you're up for it, I could use an underage getaway driver."

"My speciality. It's a date. I haven't had a run behind the wheel for a while. Though I didn't miss it yesterday."

"So did you have you had fun last night?"

"Heaps. Not only did we get to kill all the night staff but we also got to kill all of Penguin's guys when they showed up."

"Penguin?"

"Yup." I drop another lump of sugar into my drink, hoping to overpower the significant plant taste. "After they found out we were there, they came over with guns and started shooting the place up. A whole bunch of 'em."

"You shot them back I hope?"

"Oh yeah. A whole bunch of 'em."

She smiles. Her green lips curl upwards, catching the faint light, revealing the subtle dimple at their corner: an imperfection that is usually hidden by her green-tinged skin and her usually serious expression.

"I thought they blew up your lab to begin with."

"They did. Joker was real pissed about it."

Pam tenses at his mention. "Ah, yes. How is the green-haired maniac?"

"Crazy as usual. If not slightly crazier."

"Treating you as… well as usual?"

"The same. If not better. He took me to the club on Friday."

"The Joker's Wild. The rowdiest club this side of Bludhaven. What a great place to take a child," she grumbles, now fiddling with the vines of the nearest plant, allowing it to periodically curl and uncurl around her finger as she stares at it furiously. She couldn't make her hatred for my father more blatantly obvious.

"I've been going for years. It's not like I'm not used to the drunks, druggies and strippers already. I'm on a first name basis with most of them. Although I'm pretty sure that most of the stripper names aren't real…"

"I'm concerned that you even know what strippers are, let alone that you associate with them."

"They're not so bad once you get to know them."

"Your ability to befriend strangers never ceases to amaze."

"I get it from my parents."

"Their parenting tactics don't either."

"Ah, you know how sociopathic clowns are."

"He's psychopathic," she contradicts.

"Sociopathic," I insist.

She turns, shaking her head lovingly and begins to busy herself with watering her plants. Her long red hair ripples with every movement, retaining its beauty despite the leaves caught in it. If there's anything that can give you low self-esteem, it's the only two women you've ever known being ethereally beautiful. Thankfully I'm able to detract from my thin lips and stern jaw with loud purple eyeshadow and red lipstick, not to mention the white paint that usually coats my face. Even so, it's difficult to come even close to the effortless grace that Pamela exhibits.

"You sure you're okay?" She prods, turning as she somehow senses me rubbing at my sore face.

"Pammy, you worry too much," I sigh, rolling my eyes fondly.

"Can you blame me? God knows what awful things that maniac does to you behind closed doors. If I could I'd-"

"Ivy!" I whine, pouting at her to drop it. Thankfully she takes a hint and shrugs it off immediately, taking a long gulp from her own cup.

I went over to my godmother's house as soon as I woke up at 9. I'm exhausted from the heist, that being one of the longest I've done in a while, with the long drive there and back, but decided to keep in line with Tuesday afternoon tradition and make the trip downtown. Normally my mother would accompany me on such trips but she wasn't awake when my alarm went off so I left without her. I had to get the bus. It was not a good moment for me.

Ivy's house is appropriately placed opposite the largest park in the area. Though she often complains about the amount of "meat-bag" children in the place, it is biggest green space around. This position is one fought over with Ivy's house. The outside of it is so covered in plants that I often mistake it for one. By the rate her garden is growing, I wouldn't be surprised if it one day consumed the building. And as if the outside wasn't enough, the inside is unnoticeably indoors, with every square centimetre seemingly resident to a potted plant of sorts to the point it is more jungle than house. Vines curl around beams here, unusual flowers bloom from cracks in the floorboard there.

I stand to throw away the remaining dregs at the bottom of my cup into the sink. I hop from my stool and begin to make the arduous journey of tiptoeing around roots and carefully stepping over clumps of grass. As I arrive at the sink an unusually large venus flytrap snaps at my fingers and I pull away quickly to avoid its needle-like teeth.

She made it clear when we first properly met to not touch any of the floral inhabitants. She's given me a vaccine that grants me immunity to most of her toxins, the same bestowed unto my mom (though the favour was not extended to Joker to keep him a restraining order's distance from her home) although you can never be sure if the deadlier ones will suddenly poison you or a bud will open into a mouth and eat you. Also, I think she doesn't trust me not to destroy them, which is probably wise on her behalf. But, God, she treats the things so well you'd think they were alive.

It starts raining outside.

 _She likes them better than she likes you._

 _She does,_ agrees a rose bush.

 _I can't say that I blame her, you're a nasty piece of meat, aren't you?_ chips in another flower.

 _Fuck you_ , I retort.

 _No wonder no-one likes you_.

Suddenly they all begin to cry out. The yelling comes from all directions, filling my ears, painfully. Loudest of all is the laughter. _Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha._

"Shut up! I don't care!" I yell.

Everything goes silent except for the giggling noise. I look down at my feet and see a blue flower: the source of the noise. Angrily, I raise my foot and bring it down, crushing it.

Ivy screams in pain and turns to me. "What the hell?" she breathes.

Chest heaving, I slump back into the stool. "He started it."

Her expression immediately turns from fury to pity. "It spoke to you?"

I nod.

She pats my hand on the table in exasperation. She reacts this way whenever I bring up anything of the sort: in a kind of sympathetic irritation. "You know it's in your head, Lu? It's not real."

I ponder this thought for a moment.

 _I think we're quite real._

 _More real than her._

 _Kill her._

 _Kill yourself._

"Maybe the stuff in my head is real and everything else isn't."

"Not the time to get philosophical."

"Is there ever really a time to get philosophical?" I shoot back.

She sighs. "It's not real. And it's dangerous."

"Everything is dangerous really if you think about it. Like, take that spoon. If you were using it and it suddenly flew from your hands and hit someone in the head, they could die. But does everyone around the area of someone eating soup have to wear a helmet? No."

She looks at me in pitiful confusion for a moment and then smiles and shakes her head, deciding to quit arguing. I've found that it's best to simply feign ignorance and say something outlandish in order to avoid awkward conversations.

"Really, Luce, how are you? Other than what I'm hoping was a run in with a lamppost-"

"I'm fine. Business is booming, flowers are blooming and all that shit. I think Daddy might let me take up more heist jobs on my own."

"Really?" She says, I can't tell if she's interested or sceptical at the idea. More than likely, she'll counter anything that J approves of.

"Yeah," I continue. "After I pulled off the lab heist, he was so proud he said he'd finally think about it. I tell you, Ive, I'm moving on up. Soon I'll be Queen of Gotham."

"You'll have to damn well murder the current one for that privilege." The pair of us smirk at the thought of Harley, Ivy a bit too long. I've suspected that there's something between them ever since I knew what friends-with-benefits meant, though I've never outright asked, nor wanted to. I'd rather not spoil further the already tainted image of my parents' relationship. If there ever was something, it's over for Harley at least. Though I don't think Ivy took the hint.

Pam coughs awkwardly and blushes as she notices me eying her suspiciously. "And your father is really okay with letting a child run around with a gun?"

"He's let me hold one since I could move my fingers. I think he's not above this," I scoff.

"No, I mean, is he really willing to let you go it alone? After... what happened, he's been very overprotective. As much as it pains me to say, I don't blame him. With Penguin pissed off, he could do anything next and it could be offing you. It's not safe and we know that now more than ever."

I stare into the mug, swilling the last dregs of tea around to form swirling patterns at its base. "And you know I have to kill Penguin," I whisper, "you know why I have to. This is the only way."

"And do you want the same to happen to you?" she hisses, leaning forward in her seat to face me.

I gulp. "If it means revenge."

Ivy looks at me somewhat pityingly before biting her lip in concern and grasping her hands over my own. "Don't throw your life away, Lucy. There are people who care about you. I care about you..."

"I'm not coming to live with you. Plant-themed crime is not my forte."

"I know," Ivy sighs. "I just wish-"

"I know," I snap, losing patience.

There is an awkward moment of silence. I avoid her eyes though I can feel her staring at me. Pity. She always looks at me with pity. I want to be feared, not pitied. I blink away the enraged tears and paint back on my smile.

"So what should my new name be?"

"What? I think Lucy is a nice name. You don't have to-"

"No. Like my stage name. I mean, I can't go around calling myself "Joker's Daughter" forever can I? Especially not on my own jobs."

"Definitely not," she says a little too bitterly.

I ignore her tone. "I was running a bit of a poll to see what it should be. I asked the girls at the club the other day but all the names they came up were shit. Except that one who suggested "psycho-bitch" I'm not sure if that was an insult but I kinda like it. If you were to- "

"Did your father hit you again?" she interrupts.

I give her a look of final warning. "He doesn't do that anymore."

"And you believe him?" she runs a finger over the bruising on my face. I wince at the pain. "Nothing stopped him from beating you within an inch of life before."

"He doesn't do that anymore," I persist. "He said he wasn't and he hasn't laid a finger on me since."

"What about Harley? You're okay with standing back and letting that bastard push her around for the rest of her life?"

"I never was. But it doesn't matter now. He doesn't do it anymore. I'm fine. Harley's fine. We're all fucking fine so just drop it, will you?"

She huffs and starts fiddling with a green thread on her jumper sleeve. I avoid her eyes. Ivy never used to be so overly protective. Neither did my parents. It's getting old pretty fast. One minute I can walk into a burning building and the next it's a potential safety hazard. I can't keep up.

"Please," I say. "I don't need you to constantly treat me like a child. Or like I could break at any second. I have everything under control."

"I just..." she begins. "I hope you really are okay. I know how hard it's been since-"

She's interrupted by the angry ringing of the phone down the hall. She excuses herself and hurries off to answer it, leaving me alone in the kitchen. The rain hammers down on the other side of the window, cutting through the otherwise silent room. The glass is stained by the sheet of liquid as it runs down in streaks. I listen to the rain and look out at the empty street outside and begin tapping on the table. Rhythmically at first, focusing completely on the movement of my fingers on the wood. But the rain is still there. Pounding. I tap louder, trying to drown it out. But still it's there: the pounding in my skull. Thud, thud, thud. And the smell of the rain. The smell. My tapping becomes erratic. Then becomes slapping. Then my fists punching on the table. Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.

"Lucy," says Ivy as she walks back into the room, the phone wire stretching out the door beginning be her. As she sees me she coughs, as if she'd just walked in on something deeply private. When I stop, she regains composure. "It's for you," she says bitterly.

She hands out the green phone to me which I accept gingerly.

"Hello?"

"Lucia!"

"Dad?"

"The one and only."

"What is it?" I ask, turning away from Ivy's sulking expression.

"In response to last night's "business proposal", I have a follow up "business proposal" for you."

My breath catches.

"You want to move up in the world; strike out on your own; stick it to the man."

"Yes."

"I want to destroy Penguin and everything he holds dear."

My mouth waters at the thought. Penguin lying dead on the sidewalk. Penguin with his blood spilt around him. Penguin with a broken spine and a cracked skull with a bullet in it.

"How about we split the difference."

I finally find my voice. "I'll do anything."

I can feel him smile down the line. "Ah, ah, ah. First you have to prove yourself worthy of my trust."

I gulp. "I haven't already?"

"Not enough."

"Okay…"

"On Friday night, we'll be paying our god friend Oswald Cobblepot a long over-due visit. I plan to make good on my promise. But I need someone I can rely on to get the job done."

I glance over my shoulder and catch Pam's eyes. She looks on at me with pity. I don't need or deserve pity. I turn from her. "I'll do anything," I repeat.

"Good."

When the beeping starts, signalling that he's hung up, Ivy appears next to me and takes the phone from my hand, silently.

"I'm fine," I say stubbornly.

She pauses in the doorway. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

 **AN: That took longer to write than I'd hoped but I'd rather take time to write something worth uploading than rush just to get it out. Hopefully you guys will like it.**

 **Thank you to Wildflowerstories for following, favourite-ing (?) and reviewing, Sparkplugs and Joanna Baratheon for following, FanfictionRules92 (damn right it does) for following and favourite-ing, stephannieteresa1 for reviewing and TheLlamaMadeOutOfPotatoes for favourite-ing. Hope that's everyone. Digital hugs for you all!**


	4. The Heist

**Firstly, I am so so so so so sorry that this took me so long to get out. Life happened (UGH, that old thing), not to mention, this chapter is HELLA LONG. Hopefully the word-count will make it up to you.**

The exterior of the Iceberg Lounge resembles exactly that which its name suggests. Large neon letters glow from the glassy front, loudly pronouncing its title. Like most nights, a long line of people await entrance to the swankiest nightspot in Gotham City.

I sit on the rooftop across from the building and look down at them in disgust. Why they would willingly walk into that obnoxiously extravagant shithole is beyond me. Each person in that line is either some low-life looking for glory, some moron looking to show off his wealth or some nobody trying to look like he has it. I suppose it's just as well, though, considering that I might feel some degree of remorse for blowing up people of worth.

I have one job: plant a bomb and destroy Penguin's source of income, his base of operations, his power. It is no easy task. It has taken me hours upon hours of planning to get to this point. I try and calm my anticipation by telling myself it'll be just like the lab heist. Except this time I'm going in completely and utterly alone.

It's a relatively clear night which will only make the task of scaling the wall to the closest unguarded entrance easier, though the ominous clouds that billow in the wind threaten to tear open and release a downpour any second. As if in response, a drop of rain lands on my cheek. More will follow. Without another minute's hesitation, I begin to clamber my way down the side of the building and onward to the lounge.

By the time I make it to the alleyway behind the club, the drizzle has escalated to something resembling torrential rain. Gritting my teeth against the cold, I powder my hands and begin to climb the brick.

I quickly discover that this isn't working when I fall on my ass after making it a metre from the ground. Grumbling, I yank off my combat boots and socks, re-powder my hands and try again.

The use of my feet makes the task considerably easier. My toes can now assist in clawing at the ridges in the slick stone and hold me upright as my hands struggle to find grips. With the rain beating into my eyes and making the brickwork wet, the already difficult climb is nearly impossible. Though I refuse to believe it.

The window is in sight, maybe two feet away. If I can get one more grip ahead and then jump, I can make it. I keep my eyes trained on the window ledge as I reach up for another grip. I lash out with my hand to grab it. My fingers wrap around the stone and then-

My hand slips.

I fall sharply and land on a dumpster below. My back hits the hard lid with a painful thud, winding me, before my body rolls off and hits the gravely floor.

I moan in pain, then turn to face the god forsaken wall above me and glare at it. I've had worse falls than one story but it still fucking hurts.

My hands are now red raw and cut up from the climb. I'm not trying that again, I decide. I suppose that I'll have to find another way in.

It's difficult to believe that I've become one of the people in the queue. I curse the rain as I stand there, shivering in the cold. At least I'm wearing more clothes than most of the other girls waiting to get in in their skimpy dresses and high heels, though black hoodie, pants and boots doesn't exactly help me blend into the crowd. People shoot me weird looks from up front, turning around and frowning at the sight of me. I just hope it's because of my attire instead of my age.

The queue gives one last push forward as a group in front is allowed entry. I will myself to be taller and hold my head high as I stroll past the bouncer and forward to the door and-

"Hang on."

The man's meaty hand halts me as I attempt to sneak past him. He looks me up and down suspiciously.

"ID?"

Shit.

"ID? Ha, you've made my day!" I laugh, altering my accent and pushing my face into a small laugh. "Gosh, that'll be one to tell the girls in the office."

I pretend to reach into my pockets in search, hands brushing over where the bomb is, before feigning concern.

"Dammit, I guess I must've lest it at home. Look, I'm meeting a friend and I really have to be-"

"No ID, no entry."

Shit.

I open my mouth to persuade him again but I'm interrupted by a voice behind me.

"Relax, she's with me."

I turn. A tall woman in a black dress with short black hair and cat eye makeup stands behind me. She reaches across to the bouncer and slips him a wad of bank notes. He pauses a second and then, as if feeling the weight of the cash in his pocket, quietly steps aside.

As we move past him, the woman's hand quickly and silently darts out at him. Her fingers wrap around both the wad and his wallet. He doesn't notice as she slips them into a pocket in the folds of her dress. Rolling my eyes, I silently follow her inside.

In the doorway, the sound of jazz music and low chatter become audible. A man takes the woman's umbrella and coat and attempts to relieve me of my soaking jacket. I snarl at him like an animal and he backs off.

We push through the double doors and into a luxurious, ballroom-sized room. Hordes of people in fine dress stand around a large blue pool with a massive iceberg sculpture at the centre, on top of which stands the jazz band. I roll my eyes so hard that I worry they'll go back into my skull and follow the figure beside me.

The woman doesn't stop to look at me until we arrive in the dark cover of the corner. Selina Kyle turns to me and says, "A thank you would suffice."

I scowl. "I was handling it. I didn't need you to butt in."

She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow to me. "That was you handling it?"

"Ugh, just stay out of my business, Cat." I attempt to walk away but she grabs my shoulder and looks me up and down, taking in my sodden black hoodie and muddy boots.

"What happened? Did you fall into a puddle or something?"

"Yes actually. Several," I grumble.

"What are you trying to do, showing up here? Do you have a death wish, Quinn?" she says, a little too loudly for comfort.

"Why should I tell you?" I hiss, looking to the sides to check for anyone listening in. "You could sell me out to just about anyone: The Bat, Penguin-"

"I told you, I'm staying out of this whole thing."

"If you're not with us, you're against us."

"I'm just trying to help you," she insists, reaching forward to brush a strand of purple hair from my face. I flinch away from her touch.

"I don't need your help."

"You can't do everything alone, you know."

"Who else do I have?"

She doesn't speak.

"Don't pity me."

"Trust me, I don't." She walks away, trailing off through the crowd in the direction of the bar.

Noticing the people around me beginning to stare as my dishevelled appearance, I swallow my pride and follow her. On my way, I secretly reach into a pocket and pull out a thermal. It's a small yellow ball with a smiley face painted on and is filled with compact explosives that will collapse the entire building when my bomb sets it off. I smile.

When I arrive at the bar, Cat looks down silently and pulls down the bottom of my hoodie where the red wiring of the bomb is just visibly peeking out. She makes a thoughtful noise and then picks up a strangers unfinished drink from in front of her. Pretending to sip she quickly says, "8 o'clock is the door that leads to Penguin's private museum. There's no one there besides a few guards. In front of the door is a guard. I'll distract him, you get in. You'll have about 30 seconds before the guy across the room rotates over to block it off again. It'll be locked. Be quick and quiet."

I blink, taking in the gushing instructions, and she's already gliding across to the door. I pause a second, picking up the rest of her drink and swallowing it before making my way around the outskirts of the room, trying to keep my eyes on Selina.

Eventually I arrive at 8 o'clock, pushing myself against a column nearby and peeking around the edges as Catwoman moves gracefully toward the guard.

I watch as her gloved hand sneaks into his pocket as she passes and pulls out his wallet. Then, suddenly, her hand purposefully opens and the wallet thuds to the ground. She makes to reach down and grab it but before she can, the guard roughly grabs her by the arm and shakes her upright. He says something along the lines of "come with me" and then commences with dragging her toward the back. As he hustles her, Selina glances subtly in my approximate direction and gives something that might be a wink. I take that as my cue.

I spin around from the column and creep to the door, which is no easy task in my boots. Pulling the hairpin holding my fringe back from my face out of my hair, I begin picking the lock.

I begin to feel slightly giddy as I feel the first few clicks of the lock slowly opening. This is it. This is my chance. I'm going to blow up that stupid creepy bastard's base. And maybe after that I'll be able to kill him myself. Maybe I'll finally be allowed. I'll give that son of a bitch the death he deserves. I'll skin him; maybe draw and quarter him; smash his head in with my bare hands… Nothing could be good enough revenge for what he did.

I snap out of the gruesome vision and horrifyingly find that I've not moved for a good ten seconds. More than I have time for.

A quick glance behind me and I spot the guard from across the room moving around to block off the door again. As I turn to look at him for a fleeting moment, he spots me. I freeze. He yells something that's lost in the noise of the crowd and speeds up, pushing toward me. Cursing under my breath, I jolt the bobby pin in the lock more furiously, feeling for the gears inside the lock whilst simultaneously glancing behind me to keep track of the thug who is now advancing quickly.

 _Shit shit shit._

"Open dammit!" I hiss under my breath.

 _Click_.

The last pin is forced open. I grab the doorknob and yank it open, dart inside and slam it again. I hear the door click shut, locking as the bobby pin falls out. The guy reaches the door a second later, attempts to turn the handle and then begins slamming his fists against it in frustration as he realises its locked. The second he stops; I know he's pulling out a key.

I panic again. Looking around for an escape. I'm in a dark, dimly lit corridor with peeling wallpaper and only one pathway that leads farther down than I'd have time to run in ten seconds. Above me is a series of metal beams: my saviour. Jumping to the side and kicking off the wall to propel myself higher, I leap for the beam. I manage to heave myself into the structure just as the door below bursts open.

The guard storms in, red faced and chest heaving. When he glances around and doesn't see me, he pauses and pulls out a gun. I slowly begin lowering myself down so that I lie flat against the beam and hope that it will provide me with enough cover to avoid being seen. Now so still, the indescribable, yet so strongly "Penguin" smell of the corridor engulfs me.

 _Lu…_

I scrunch my eyes closed and try not to breath. Below me I hear the guy curse and then slowly edge his way down the hall past me.

 _Lucy._

 _Kill…_

 _Hahahahahaha._

 _Kill…_

 _Lucy!_

 _Kill the boy._

 _LUCY!_

 _Drip._

A leak in the ceiling releases a droplet of cold water that splashes onto my cheek. My eyes snap open. The guard is gone. Shaking, I push myself up into a crouch and jump down. My legs nearly give away under me as I land, causing my ankle to twist slightly. A flash of pain sears through my foot and I fight the urge to cry out. Dizzy, I pull out the gun from the secret pocket on the inside of my hoodie, fingers brushing against the bomb, along with another of the small thermals. I drop it onto the carpeted floor and follow it as it rolls down the hallway.

The round ball hits the wall at the end and I stop. Breathing now steady, I tighten my fingers around the gun and look to the sides where the corridor breaks off into two separate routes. Though one end just leads directly to a bolted door (which is of no use to me), the other opens into a wider passage. I catch a glimpse of glass and, consumed with curiosity, move in its direction.

I come face to face with a glass display case, like the ones that are found in museums. Except instead of holding some ancient artefact, this case contains, floating in rank, green water, a human skeleton. I look around me and find several more of these. Some hold skeletons, others corpses. Some have only one body, others multiple, all decomposing together like old friends.

 _Damn, I wish we'd thought of this first_ , whispers a voice in my head, rallying a series of more unintelligible cries of similar sentiment. I shush them and continue down the hall.

More and more glass cases line the walls as I carry on walking. All are lit up in eerie blue light, the only source of luminescence around, providing the area with a creepy dimness. Despite experiencing gore- creating it- on a regular basis, the sight of the twisted displays sickens me straight to the core, churning my stomach and making my head spin. The dust makes my eyes water as I stumble past more cases, my ankle throbbing with every movement. I pass one with five bodies piled on top of each other. Another has one of our own goons decomposing on his back. To the left of me, a series of maimed body parts are scattered around a decapitated head that stares at me with dead eyes as I pass. A deformed skeleton lies broken in another case. I turn a corner. More glass boxes. A man with no arms or legs is sprawled in another container. Next to him is a skeleton with two shattered legs.

I turn into a dead end. A wall faces me. Just as I'm about to double back, I glimpse a splash of colour in the case ahead of me. I slowly move toward it, praying it's not what I think it is. As I come face to face with my nightmare, my breath catches and my heart nearly stops in my chest. I choke on my own saliva, bile rising in my throat. In the display case, ahead of me, stand two stuffed hyenas dressed in green bows and top hats like the last time I saw them. Except back then they were alive. I lift a shaking hand to touch them but the glass blocks me from stroking Bud and Lou's dead faces. I resist the rising desire to scream.

I look down. Just below the glass is a small button, fitted into the wood. Somehow, my finger trails down toward it and presses it instinctually. There is the faint sound of static from the speakers beside the box.

"Recognise Joker's pets?"

I jump as I hear Penguin's voice, spinning around as though expecting him to appear over my shoulder. No one is there, though my grip on the gun becomes tighter and every hair on my body raises with anticipation of his random appearance.

The recording carries on playing in Penguin's grating cockney accent. "Me too!"

 _Bastard. Son of a bitch._

"That's why I had them shot and stuffed." The recording erupts into a loud burst of laughter, then cuts off.

 _That bastard._

My hands are shaking. I stare at the dead creatures, enclosed behind the filthy glass, trapped in my enemy's home.

My breath begins speeding up, uneven and heavy. Sweat forms on my brow and I try not to collapse. I try tapping but it's too late. I start shaking uncontrollably.

Without thinking, before I can register, my hands raise and I fire the gun at the glass.

There is the bang of the shot then the sound of the glass as it shatters. Fragments fly at me, a shard lodging itself in my forearm painfully. I nearly laugh at the destruction. Then the alarm goes off.

My face falls. _Shit._

 _You fucking idiot. You absolute, fucking-_

Over the shrieking alarm is the muffled sound of thundering footsteps and yelling from down the hall.

 _Double shit._

I look around panicked for somewhere to hide but there is none. Instead I push myself into a sprint, making off further into the labyrinthine halls. I turn a sharp corner, hoping to mislead them and put as much distance as possible between me and the guards. I twist down another and another and another and-

I come face to face with five more thugs. With guns.

 _Shitshitshit._

"It's the clown bitch," one yells.

"At your service," I reply, shooting him and the next closest in the head.

The rest turn on me.

They all open fire, releasing bullets faster than I can alone. Thankfully they're lousy shots, though that doesn't stop bullets from soaring dangerously close to my head.

I dive for cover, coming to rest behind the nearest glass container, gasping for breath and then reaching out again to shoot another.

 _Bang_. Someone shoots the glass box. It shatters behind me, glass pieces flying into my back. I cry out.

 _Bang_. I scream as searing pain blossoms in my shoulder. Gingerly I reach for the source of the pain, finding a burning, bloody hole.

 _You're going to die here._

 _You're useless._

 _You're a disgrace._

"Shut up!"

I spin around and shoot in random directions, hitting a guy in the chest by pure luck.

Two left.

One aims for my head and misses. The bullet manages to graze my ear, knocking me to the ground. I land on my back, remaining bits of glass sticking further into my flesh. As I lie there, head against the floor, I hear the vibrations of footsteps following the sound of the gunshots.

I heave myself up and fire again, hitting the one on the left in the neck. The last tries to shoot me in panic and misses, I jump to my feet, shooing him in the hand. He cries out and drops the gun. Smiling, I go for the headshot.

 _Click_. No ammo left.

I throw the gun down. He charges for me and hits me hard across the face with his non-damaged fist. I bite down a cry of pain at the blow and hit him back. He barely flinches.

"Well, fuck me."

He hits me in the face again. I feel my tooth as it breaks and spit it out, blood spilling from my mouth. He shoves me back against the wall, punching me again. I feel my nose break for the second time this year. I have little time to contemplate its extreme crookedness as I'm hit again. And again.

Half collapsing, I dive out from under his arms, head spinning from pain, blood loss and bludgeoning damage. I scramble for something to hit him with and my hands land on the block of metal in my hoodie. I pull out the bomb and throw it as hard as I can manage. It hits him in the head, breaking into pieces on impact, and he falls back unconscious as bruises begin blossoming around an ugly cut.

"I hope you get a scar," I spit through a mouthful of blood.

I lean against the wall, catching my breath and trying to regain focus. I receive a rude awakening at the sound of running and yelling from around the corner.

 _More are coming. Run if you want to stay alive._

I push myself off the wall and begin an unsteady run on weak legs down the corridor. The voices in my head begin a chorus of shouting. For once they share a unanimous message.

 _You failed._

 _You failed._

 _You failed._

I stagger around a corner. A set of stairs faces me.

Somewhere in my pounding head, I manage to think, _Way out_. I run up them as best I can. Blood trailing up the wall as I lean against it for support.

Its locked. I kick the lock with my remaining strength and it bursts open. I stumble out. Cold air and rain meets me. The roof. I'm on the roof.

I'm alive.

 _You failed._

 _This was your one chance._

 _You failed._

 _You are too weak to do anything._

 _You disappointed everyone._

 _Just jump off, why don't you?_

 _You're nothing now._

 _You failed._

 _You blew your only shot._

 _What are you going to do now?_

 _You're a failure._

I sink to my knees.

 **Thank you if you've been reading up until this point. If you're enjoying the story (or not), please let me know. Reading reviews makes my day. Thank you so much for everyone who has followed so far and to everyone who may follow after this chapter. Sending virtual hug. I swear to you all that I will get the next chapter out sooner.**

 **-Spectre Specs xx**


	5. Bullet Wounds

**So... I'm a liar. And that was a cruel wait, I know. But I figured I had to post something after I realised we were up to 16 FOLLOWERS which is super cool. Love you all and thank you for your patience.**

We drive in silence.

There is no noise except the tires grinding against the road, the rain pounding against the roof of the car and the windscreen wipers as they attempt to fight it off.

Next to me, mom sits, staring vacantly out of the window. Now finished with stitching the skin back together around my bullet wound, she avoids contact with me, avoiding my eyes as I search for hers. She is biting her lip. It looks painful.

In the front seat, dad drives the car 20 over the speed limit, his complete focus on the road and not crashing into the few other cars on it. I have never seen him so quiet. So still. The sight of his clenched jaw and clenched fists on the wheel cause fear to bubble up inside me like fizz in a bottle of lemonade. If I open my mouth, I think I'll throw up. I can practically feel the heat of rage from him. The car is suddenly clammy and crowded. Sweat drips down my face.

I sit as still as I can manage, willing my hands to stop shaking. Willing my lip to stop trembling. Willing my heart to stop pounding against my rib cage like it's trying to escape my body; like I'm trying to escape my body. Maybe my heart is trying to compensate for the lack of time it will spend beating from now on by squeezing ten years' worth into the drive home. I will it to stop, seizing up all my muscles and scrunching my eyes shut so that I might die quietly and painlessly here and never have to face my father's wrath.

 _Just die. Please, just die_.

Surprisingly, there is no response from inside my head. The voices have gone quiet, like they also know what's coming. I wish that they would just say something for the first time in my life. I wish that they would break the silence.

Dad's jaw clenches as the sound of my small gasp for breath after holding it for as long as possible. I can almost see a vein throbbing in his head- so cartoonish. It would be hilarious if it weren't terrifying. I choke on a half laugh half sob and his face reddens further. He pushes his foot down harder on the pedal, jolting the car forward in fury. We accelerate through a set of red lights.

He's furious. He's not just going to hit me; beat me: he's going to kill me. He's going to punch me… and keep on punching me, on and on until I die, coughing on blood.

 _Thump, thump_. My heart beats faster inside me. Can they hear that? Can everyone hear it? Can he hear how afraid I am of him? Does he care?

I know I'll be lucky to survive the night.

Three months ago, there was essentially an unspoken agreement between me and my father that he wouldn't hit me anymore. It's been a real problem of his in the past. He's so used to violence that it's his natural response to everything. Every time I pissed him off: _BAM_ ; he socked me in the jaw. I got used to it as a punishment to the point that I was immune to the pain. But it was established that he would stop and he followed through with his promise. Since then, he hasn't laid a finger on me or my mother. There have been occasions when he's been particularly angry with me and his fists have clenched with the burning desire to knock my front teeth out. There have been times when I've pushed him to the very limits just to see if he would do it, because I needed it. But every time, he just dug his nails into his palms and walked away.

I don't think he'll walk away this time. I don't think I'll walk away.

I have never seen him so angry. It terrifies me how indescribably furious he is. Normally it's impossible to tell if he wants you dead. He hides the rage behind showmanship. But now, he is shaking in anger as much as I am in fear.

I guess it's impossible to break your word if you never gave it.

He turns a sharp corner. Mom sways in her seat but stays as silent as before. My head hits the window and I keep it there, feeling the vibrations of the car as it moves shiver through me. It feels like free electroshock therapy. Unfortunately, it doesn't melt my brain.

I see as we turn into a familiar street. It's one that we turn down in the Narrows as a part of the series of rotations to mislead any potential followers. We're minutes from home. I have minutes to live.

When I called from on top of the roof of the Iceberg Lounge in the rain with every staff member in the place searching for me, it's needless to say that dad was likely not pleased.

I took ten minutes to get up from foetal position. Ten minutes in which I fought with the idea of just staying there; of collapsing down in the rain and allowing myself to drown in the rain water. I was overwhelmed with the crushing self-hatred at my failure and the crippling abuse from my voices. They were screeching loud all around me. Not just from inside but as if a thousand people were surrounding me and screaming and shoving me down. I could feel the pain of them kicking, though it may have been from the bullet lodged in my shoulder.

My first coherent, rational thought in the chaos was of the bullet in my shoulder. From there, I pulled myself out of the hallucination, screaming and clawing at reality and awoke to find myself in a pool of my own blood. Light-headed I sat up and examined the hole in my shoulder. It wasn't bleeding as badly but still stained by blood all around it. It was deep too, the metal of the bullet just visible. Without thinking, I stuffed part of my shirt into my mouth, reached into the wound and closed my fingers around the bullet. Screaming and whimpering against the agony and the urge to collapse, I yanked it out of my seared flesh. It dropped to the ground with a tiny metallic clank and sat there in a puddle in front of me, covered in blood and bits of muscle tissue. I nearly passed out right then with the pain. The blood began flowing fresh again with nothing stopping it. I felt the warm liquid as it dribbled down my back, soaking my shirt and making it stick to my skin.

Stop blood was my next thought.

Gripping at consciousness with a weakening grasp, I set my shaking hands at the bottom of my t-shirt and ripped a strip of fabric from it. From the scraps of material, I managed to create a contraption that would stifle the blood flow slightly, though not nearly enough to prevent it.

Dazed, I looked around. The rain had subdued to a drizzle, though it felt colder than ever, and the wind at the great height was powerful and icy, whipping my hair into my mouth. I was on the roof.

I'm on the roof.

I scrambled around in the gravel with a sudden new drive, not caring about how dizzy standing made me feel. I was on the roof.

My breathing became ragged. My heartbeat became erratic. I couldn't breathe. The rain was drowning me and I couldn't breathe.

There was a cackle from behind me. I turned and Penguin swung his cane. I tried to duck but fell to the ground. The cane came smashing into my face. I closed my eyes and prepared for the end but no blow came. Penguin vanished when I opened my eyes.

I was in over my head. I needed help before I bled out on Penguin's roof. I could think of less shitty ways to go.

I rummaged around in the faint light for my phone and found it still had a glorious three percent left on it. I went on speed dial. It rang for a solid two seconds before she picked up.

"Lucy?" Said mom, panicked.

"I'm on the roof of the Iceberg. I've been shot. I need-"

"I'm on my way."

She hung up. I panted in relief. Now I just needed to stay alive until help arrived.

"Keep joking and you won't live long enough to give the punchline."

I turned. Penguin stood to my right.

"No no no no no," I pleaded with my own head. "No! Please, no!" I clutched my head between my hands, trying to calm my heartbeat and clenched my eyes shut.

"Watch your mouth around the King of Gotham."

I screamed into a clump of bunched up shirt, drowning out the noise.

When I thought it was safe, I opened my eyes.

 _A bright beam of light shines into my eyes, blindingly._

"Noooooo," I whimpered.

"I'm not your enemy, Quinn." Batman towered above me, cape billowing in imaginary wind, and slick with imaginary rain.

"You did this!" I heard myself shriek.

"Do it or I'll kill them both," demanded Penguin, ten of him stood around me in a tight circle.

"No!" I screamed, lashing out at him with bare fists, which connected only with air. I staggered around blind. I needed to hit him. I needed to feel him shatter under my hands but there was nothing there. Nothing there-

I was held back by a strong grip on my arms and yanked away from the edge of the roof top.

Next thing the wind was rushing past my face as I the figure sailed down from the roof with me in tow, before dropping me roughly just before we hit the ground. I fell down immediately, head swimming.

Through blurry vision I could just about see the purple of the costume and groaned. Bratgirl to the rescue.

"Lucy Quinn," she said.

"Batty," I respond weakly. "It's been too long."

"Whatever you were doing on top of Penguin's roof, I can assume it wasn't any good." She stepped toward me.

"Oh, you know me." I could feel myself losing consciousness. "Always up to something..."

"You realise I'll have to arrest you?"

"Don't count on it," said a voice ahead.

A gun went off, Batgirl leaped into action and I blacked out.

I woke up in the car with a sewing needle in my shoulder. And a pissed off Joker.

The car comes to a halt outside Funni Bones Shipping at the end of Amusement Mile. As the engine cuts out, there is complete and utter silence. No one breathes; no one moves. Dad is the first to get out, doing so abruptly, jumping up and slamming the car angrily before storming in through the door. He's waiting for me inside. I hold my breath, hoping I can pause the moment; prolong my time. But I can't. There is no way to escape. I try and think of something to say; something to be remembered by but I give up and walk to the door.

BAM. I'm knocked back by a flash of white. A bare knuckle cracks against my jaw. I fall back into the door frame, too shocked to feel pain. As soon as I do, he grabs my shirt again, pulling it taut around my wounds and flinging me into the hallway.

The few thugs who loiter in the hall step back as I fall hard to the ground.

"Leave!" screams my father. No one dares move. "GET OUT!"

He pulls out his gun and empties the barrel into the ceiling. The goons scatter. I shrink from the gun but don't move. He won't shoot me. He'll kill me with his hands. Slowly. Personally.

"Stand up," he says.

I don't move. I'm frozen to the ground.

"I said stand up! Did the fall make you brain dead?"

I try to get up but my leg falls beneath me. As I fall, he grabs a fist full of my hair and yanks it upward. I cry out in pain as I am forced to my feet. He shoves me sharply to the wall, then slaps me hard across the face. I wince against the stinging.

He grabs my face in one hand, crushing my jaw. His face is inches from mine, ragged breath scolding my skin as he examines me with a withering glare. The disgust he feels is all too apparent in his gaze. A tear rolls down my face. I know how he feels.

As I try and look away from his glare, he jerks my head back up painfully, taking me in again before spinning and throwing me to the ground again. I skid across the carpet and collapse helpless before him, barely enough energy to prop myself up onto my elbows. Perhaps if I lie there, he can just kick me half to death quickly and be done with it.

Unfortunately, I'm not so lucky.

He doesn't move toward me. He stands there, staring down at me and breathing heavily. "What? Are you just going to sit there? Are you not going to fight back?"

What would be the point?

"I thought you would want to fight back. You seem to enjoy running into fights, don't you? You like nearly getting yourself killed. If you want another bullet in the shoulder, I can happily give you one."

He circles my helpless form.

He rambles on. "Is that what you wanted when you went in there? An ass kicking? Do you want the punishment? Do you want to suffer...?"

"You sent me," I whisper.

"What was that?" he condescends, "You'll have to speak- "

"You sent me," I nearly yell. My interruption gives me a stamp on the foot. I shuffle backwards before he deals another. He follows like a predator stalking wounded prey.

"I sent you because I thought you could handle it. Clearly my faith was misplaced."

"What faith? You sent me to do something that was fucking impossible. I failed because you set me up to."

"You failed because you were weak. I should've known that you would do that again… That fucking-"

"You know why that happens!" I'm yelling now, half sobbing the words, all too aware of the wetness down my cheeks. "So don't you fucking dare."

"It's not my fault you can't cope. I thought I raised you to be better than that."

My head hits the wall. I've backed myself into a corner. I glace around, looking for an escape. He sees me trying to find a way out and delivers a kick to my ribs.

"If you were any father to me, you would understand!"

I search his eyes for any humanity, though I know I'll find none.

"If you were any child of mine you would fight back," he spits.

I don't move.

He scoffs. "You don't have the guts, do you?"

I wince.

"Of course you don't."

Shaking, I stand, fighting down tears and the painful urge to vomit. Barely thinking, I raise my fist and, with my last remaining strength, punch Joker across the jaw.

His head snaps to the side, remaining there for a split second. He laughs a terrible laugh and turns to face me slowly, a sadistic grin on his face.

"That's more like it!"

He grabs my shoulder tightly, digging his fingers into the area of my freshly throbbing bullet wound. I scream. He laughs and flings me like a rag doll. I hit the opposite wall. My vision blackens for a split second. When I regain it, he's coming at me again.

I block his fist with my forearm as best I can and throw him off me with a shove.

He only laughs harder and attacks me again. This time, his punch hits and I stagger back, despairing at my odds.

Before I can even regain my balance, he lashes out again, catching me on the jaw and sending me sprawling across the floor, blood pooling in my mouth.

With nothing else left to do, I burst into tears. This is it. He's going to kill me. And if he doesn't, what will I be?

"What is it? All out of fighting spirit?" he cackles.

He pulls me back up and hits me again.

"You'd better pray you have some left when Penguin comes after you because you're on your own now."

I try and push him off me. He grabs me by the neck and lifts me up. Blood rushes around my head and his fingers dig into my flesh, suffocating me. It's pointless to resist but my legs kick out underneath me, somewhat of their own accord.

"If you think you're great enough to go solo then you can. Because I am done dealing with the backlash of your fuck-ups."

I can feel my brain losing oxygen. My heart pounds harder in protest. I deserve this. Maybe he is right. Maybe I wanted to be punished. Still, fear boils in my stomach.

"Please," I whimper, gasping through his painful grip.

"Please," he imitates. "Please what?" His grip loosens and I fall to the ground.

I gasp for air. "Please don't send me away. I- I'm…" I struggle to speak over the crying and oxygen deprival.

"What?" he snaps.

"I'm nothing without you!" I shout. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"No." His face contorts into nothing less than loathing. "But it's the truth."

I choke on my own blubbering.

"If you can't take whatever's left of you and make something, then that's all you are. If you're nothing, then you shouldn't be here."

"What?" I whisper.

"Get out."

I'm too shocked to move.

"Out," he repeats.

When I don't move again, he growls, animalistic.

"Fine."

He reaches for the gun in his belt. He aims it at my head an cocks it. I don't shrink back. I stare down the barrel. I think I stop breathing then and there. He wouldn't kill me. Not like this. But he's going to. He's going to kill me. He's going to-

The Joker suddenly stumbles to the side, reeling from a punch to the back of the head. He drops the gun. Where he just was, Harley stands, fuming, fist clenched.

"You were going ta fucking kill her?!" She screeches, stomping toward him and delivering another blow. "You would have killed our fucking daughter?!"

They begin to yell at each other and break out into another fight. I don't wait around to see who wins. I scramble to my feet, dizzy and disoriented. My parents fight behind me and ahead, I catch sight of the door, open and inviting. I stagger toward it, leaning against the wall to keep from falling.

The cold air is like another punch to the gut. But I'm out. That's all that matters. I catch my breath and begin to run down the street, past the house and the car and the sounds of fighting. I run until my lungs burn and I don't recognise the road and I don't look back once.

I lean against a wall, panting. Finally, the silence is broken by a single voice speaking.

 _You really fucked up this time, didn't you?_

 **I'm not going to make promises that I clearly can't keep but I will try to get the next chapter out sooner, despite my terrible track-record. I apologise for any errors in this one except I wrote it at 1am on my phone.**

 **Also, WHO ELSE HAS SEEN WONDER WOMAN? It's really fricking good so you should totally go and give it your money so that the box office doesn't suck and the world can feel slightly less sexist. You won't be disappointed. It turns out that saving the DCEU really is the ultimate super-power.**

 **\- Spectre Specs xx**


	6. Gotham Hold 'em

"Call," says the guy across the table, cigarette hanging out of his mouth lazily as he slaps 20 dollars into the centre of the table.

The man to his left glances at his cards again before pulling out a further 20 from his tacky red jacket. "Call."

"Call," I repeat, sliding in one of the bank notes I stole from the cigarette man when I "accidentally" walked into him earlier. The guy had considerable money in there so I doubt he noticed some of it missing, especially high and reeling in hundreds more with every game. He's good, but his sense is dulling every hand. He's getting sloppier.

The final player wipes the beer off his moustache and calls, rubbing his forehead.

I examine the first cards as jacket-man lays them out. As it goes back around I bet with two kings. The jacket man scoffs.

"Problem?" I holler over the blaring music and chatter of the only club in town sleazy enough to let me in.

He shakes his head. "You haven't won a single hand tonight. If you know what's good for you then you'll fold now."

I smile at him, taking in his shitty suit and equally shitty hair-do. "Then I raise instead," I say slapping double into the pot.

The guy laughs patronisingly and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"Your barber has no idea what he's doing," I say sweetly and turn to take a long drink from my glass before he gets it. Its water, but as far as they're concerned, I'm as drunk as them.

The hand boils down to me and my new arch-nemesis. We turn over our cards: me with two-of-a-kind and him with a full house. He pulls in the pot, flicking through the bank notes and stuffing them in his pockets.

"Whoops," I say, blinking innocently. "Was that bad?"

I scowl internally whilst keeping my face neutral as the douchebag next to me guffaws at my failure and counts his cash. "You should've listened, little girl. Quit while you're ahead."

I try not to roll my eyes, instead focusing on the next hand as it's dealt out.

It's been a long night. Between the bullet, the beat down and the deadbeats I'm playing against, I am thoroughly exhausted. Unfortunately, my bed is on the other side of the city and likely burnt down by now, along with the rest of my room, possessions and the secret stash of Twinkies that I was hiding in the folds of my curtains. I sigh. I could really use a Twinkie right now.

As much as I want to go back, I can't. Sure, there's Ivy or even Selina if Penguin didn't kill her, but my pride prevents me. I can't bear going to them and admitting that I fucked up. I can't bear to speak to anyone until I've sorted out my shit.

A bomb is what I need. I just need enough money to get a new bomb. Then I can fix everything.

 _That won't work, idiot and you know it._

"Shut up," I hiss under my breath.

The next round plays out and I fold.

"Let me deal!" I say as the man in the jacket continues to stuff his winnings into his pockets, reluctantly, and with some teasing from the cigarette man ("What? Afraid the little girl's gonna beat you?") hands over the deck.

I shuffle them theatrically. "Y'know, you might have noticed, I'm not that great at cards."

"No shit," mutters "the jacket" I ignore him.

I stand to deal the cards out, circling the table and the men sat around it as I do. I try and hide my limp as best I can, though I cringe through the pain, particularly from my shoulder, that comes with movement. I made an attempt at cleaning my cuts and stitching my bullet wound in the bathroom earlier but it doesn't change the fact that I'm in complete agony.

"But you guys," I laugh. "You guys are great at this."

I lean over the moustached guy's shoulder as I carefully and slowly place his cards down face first.

"What's your secret?" I whisper dangerously, lowering my mouth to his ear, so close I can smell the liquor on his ragged breath and the sweat on his forehead.

They all look at me in silence until I pull back and cackle. "Geez, lighten up, guys."

I continue around the table until I come to my least favourite member of the party, whose drink I knock over onto his pants on the way around.

"Whoops," I deadpan.

He glares at me viciously. "What the hell are you playin' at?"

I roll my eyes with a lopsided smile, grabbing a handful of napkins and dumping them over the wet patch on his trouser leg.

"You all seem a little tense," I say, sitting down in my own seat and placing the remaining cards in the centre. "How about we have a little fun to lighten the mood."

I turn over the first card. Not even bothering to check my own hand, I push all my remaining cash into the middle. "All in."

"You're insane," scoffs the jacket guy, dabbing the stain forming on his clothes.

 _More than you know, asshole,_ I think. God, if only I could snap his neck.

I look at the next player, expectantly. One by one, the others anxiously shove their money to the pot. Jacket guy is hesitant, but follows suit.

As we each turn over our cards, it becomes apparent that the rest of us lost sorely to the jacket guy who won his third round in a row. I dealt him a Royal Flush. He howls laughing as the others growl in annoyance at their losses.

I sigh. "Guess I lost."

The jacket guy laughs harder.

"Y'know, I may not be good at cards but I am very observant."

Before he can dodge, I grab the winner's jacket, pulling it open and revealing the cards tucked inside. They fall out onto the floor as he pulls back, standing and backing away.

"I don't know how those got there," he begins to explain but is cut off as the man next to him socks him in the jaw.

"You filthy cheat," he yells in a drunken slur.

A fight breaks out immediately between the other players, quickly spreading through the entire bar as the drunks around the room begin getting knocked accidentally and retaliate violently. One guy gets thrown onto a table nearby, crushing it under his weight. Another has a bottle smashed over his head and falls to the ground, unconscious.

It's glorious.

As the fight rages on, I clean up, combing in the pile of cash and stuffing it into my pockets and clearing out of there. I take it will be a few minutes before they realise I planted the cards in his jacket, so I run as fast as I can manage in my wounded state and head downtown. I have a plan.

After some time, I stop in front of a block of flats. I lean against the wall for support as I catch my breath. My shoulder is hurting again. I twist my head to examine it and discover another rip in my makeshift stitches, from which blood is beginning to leak out. I'll have to redo it before it gets worse.

I look up at the building. It's not the nicest; it's dirty, ugly and smells like urine. Not to mention the fact that it looks like the architect fucked up since there's a slight tilt the building which gives it the appearance of being perpetually about to fall down. I admit that I would've preferred something nicer and I would've carried on searching hadn't it been for the overwhelming exhaustion of being up all night and covered in bruises. Even as I push of the wall to go inside, spasms of pain ripple from my shoulder and arms causing me to wince. I fucking hate being injured.

I reach the door with some difficulty and pull the handle. Locked. I notice a silver box with buttons all down it and groan. Tired, I mimic something I saw on TV once and press all the buttons. To my delight, there's a buzz and when I yank at the handle, the door swings open.

Who knew?

As I enter the reception, I find it empty but for the doorman snoring at the front desk next to a bottle of whiskey which has fallen on its side and is creating a pool of liquid around it. On my way across the room, I stop by the bottle and dip a finger into the puddle. I bring the liquid to my mouth and test it on my tongue. Immediately, I cringe at the spiciness of it, before shrugging and swiping the bottle, trying to brush as much of the puddle back into it as I do. Eventually I end up getting more whiskey on my jacket than in the bottle. I decide to cut my losses and take a swig of the remaining beverage as I summon the elevator.

When it arrives and the doors open with a rattle, I "eenie, meenie, miney, mo" for a random floor, pressing the button for level four with a flourish. The mirrored walls inside show the full extent of my injures. Cuts and bruises litter my face, now purpling over time and causing swelling in my face; my lip is split open and a painful red; worst of all is my neck where a pair of handprints lace around my throat in the form of purple bruising. I touch it gently and wince at the flash of pain it causes.

The elevator stops moving.

"Level four," says a robotic voice.

"Thank you," I respond, stepping out into the corridor as the doors ping open.

I cover my eyes and point, before opening them again and following the direction of my finger until I arrive at a door and knock briskly.

An old man opens. I sigh. I was hoping for a better fight, though I suppose that beggars can't be choosers.

I wipe my eyes slightly, taking advantage of my bruised and bloodied face. He seems to notice this and, though clearly irritable from being woken in the night, his face morphs into an infuriating pity. _Barf._

"Sorry to wake you," I sniffle. "May I use your phone, sir?"

He takes me in, tongue running over his bare gums, making an annoyed clicking sound.

I sniff again to give him incentive. Old bastard.

"Just for five minutes," he says, finally caving. "I have to sleep, you know."

He begins shuffling in, slippers dragging against the carpet. I follow, grinning behind his back as he mutters about me under his breath.

I look around his flat. It's smaller than my house, although, I guess I don't live there anymore. It has hideous brown wallpaper and hideous brown furniture which looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the 1950s. Or the 1850s judging by the amount of damp climbing up his wall. At least he didn't try and cover it up with hideous brown pictures. My father would like that; he doesn't appreciate masks.

 _He's not your father anymore, though, is he?_

Back again?

 _What was there to say? "Congratulations on getting your ass kicked"?_

It wasn't that bad.

 _It was._

 _You barely made it out alive._

 _He should have killed you._

He wouldn't kill me. He loves me. Mostly.

 _He doesn't care about you._

Shut up.

 _That's why he left you alive. It's a worse punishment than being dead, isn't it? You're nothing now and you know it._

"Shut up."

The old man turns to me, shocked.

 _Shit, you said it out loud again._

"You watch your tone, young lady," he barks. "Why, I'm sick of your generation thinking you're all that with your attitudes and your Nintendos-"

I roll my eyes. He's quickly becoming boring. I pull a switchblade from my pocket. His eyes widen. Before he can cry out, I clamp my hand over his mouth and sharply push him into the wall.

"Try not to scream too loudly. The walls are thin and I'd rather not deal with Jim Gordon at 5am."

I huff in annoyance as my call goes to a stranger's voicemail. Another wrong number.

I try again, dialling in the number onto the old-fashioned wall phone and straining to remember it correctly, altering the combination slightly and then praying that my call isn't answered by another angry Mexican lady.

I pull the phone cord to its limit, sitting down on the nearest armchair and resting my weary legs on the dead old man's back, admiring the nice clean cuts in his throat. His brown carpet is a bit more interesting with the red stains in it. Plus, his walls look like a Jackson Pollock. I snicker and wipe another bead of blood from my clothes with my thumb.

The phone rings for a few seconds before it's picked up.

"Frost?" I ask, biting my nails.

"Lucy?"

I sigh with relief.

"Are you safe? Are you with Ivy?"

"And deal with her condescension? No thanks."

"Where are you then?" he asks, confused.

"The Narrows maybe." I turn to the window, glancing out and noting the large Asylum building in the near distance. "Somewhere near Arkham Island. I stole a guy's house."

"Of course, you did," he mutters.

I shrug, though he can't see.

"Did you... kill him?"

"No, he's just letting a wanted criminal borrow his apartment for the night," I say with a smirk.

"Shit, Lucy," he breathes. "Not again."

"He had it coming. Nintendos? Really?" I say to the corpse below me. His cold dead eyes look straight through me and I jab him in the cheek with my foot. "Does anyone use Nintendos? Frost, do your kids have Nintendos?"

"I wouldn't know, I haven't seen them in 6 months," he grumbles.

"Really? Is Shelly still being a bitch about that?"

"It's been like that since I went to jail, Luce." He gets depressed talking about it. I'm hoping I can distract him enough to get what I want with minimal difficulty. Talking about the ex is always a pain though. I wish 12-year-old me had never asked about his personal life. Two years later, here we are.

"It was only once, though," I insist. "That's less than me."

"No, that was the second time. Then we got divorced."

"Two times?" I snap my fingers. "Damn, 1.5. You win."

A police siren sounds in the street below, flashing lights illuminating the room as it passes.

"But I won't jinx it," I say, biting my lip. I doubt they'll be looking for me. I don't think I've committed a crime for a few hours yet. Unless they found out about the Iceberg Lounge from Batgirl...

"Do you want me to come get you?" He says, clearly thinking the same thing.

Great.

"And go where? Home? We both know that's not happening."

He starts to say something, before thinking better of it and leaving us in awkward silence.

"You're probably right," he says after a pause. "Joker's pretty pissed still."

"I bet. I punched him pretty hard," I try and tease, internally cringing at the memory.

"He's just going around destroying the place. I had to send all the guys home to avoid getting murdered. I'm holed up in the kitchen trying to avoid him."

"Frost," I say urgently. "I need you to go upstairs to my room. Go to the curtains and shake them. A box of Twinkies will fall out. Protect it with your life."

"What's with the Twinkies box?" He asks hushed, I can hear him walking.

"It's full of Twinkies."

He stops moving. "Dear God, why did I ever end up as your babysitter?"

"Consider yourself lucky that I'm not obese. Then you'd be carrying a truck load of Twinkies to the nearest safe... you are getting the Twinkies, right?"

"Hell no."

I growl. "Damn you. If that box is destroyed, I'm going to butcher you. He's going to tear that room down by the end of the hour."

We both go quiet again, wondering if he'll actually do it. Maybe he'll destroy all of my belongings, erasing any trace that I was ever there, as if I never existed.

"Do you remember the Royal Flush Gang?" I say suddenly, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"Y'know, the card guys who went around fighting people with-"

"I remember. Why're you asking about them now. That was years ago. They're all dead now."

"Go figure…"

"Lucy, do you need-"

"Oh, wait! Do you still have the Blackgate security clearance from the breakout two years back?"

He hesitates, cautious. "…Yes."

"Can you check if it still works?"

No response.

"Oh, please, Frosty. Please for me! Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"Fine!" he huffs. Moments later, there's the sound of him typing on a computer.

"Does it work?" I ask after a few seconds.

"I'm still checking," he says.

I nod, glancing around. "Are you done now?"

He sighs again. I can tell he's becoming irritated. Yet another person pissed off is about the last thing I need. Especially when this person has something I _do_ need.

"I'm in," he tells me after more awkward silence.

I pump my fist. "Great. Give it to me."

"Why?" He asks, suspicious.

"Because I need it."

"I gathered. But for what?"

"To find prisoners."

"Who?" He presses. "Croc? He's not in there. Got transferred out of state for some reason."

"Ew, no. Why would I want to hang around with Killer Croc? Guy creeps me out. I always feel like he's going to eat me. And is it just me who gets rapey vibes from him?"

Frost ignores my question. Sometimes he doesn't indulge me. He's keeping it professional. "Then what do you want with the clearance?"

I huff. "Ya killing me, Frosty. I've got no time for this shit."

"Who are you looking for?"

I roll my eyes. "No one specific. Is there anyone new there? Any- what are they calling them now? Metahumans?"

He sighs. "Whatever it is you're thinking; I don't like it."

I roll my eyes, lifting my aching, bruised legs and draping them over the arm of the chair, and throwing my head upside down, revelling in the feeling of the blood rushing around my skull. "Noted."

"This is serious."

"Boring."

"I don't want you doing anything reckless-"

"What's the fun in that?"

"-and getting yourself killed-"

"I'm a big girl."

"-when you're not thinking straight."

"When am I ever, really? I'm a firm believer that all intelligent thinking should be done on a wobbly line."

"Lucy..." he groans. I can feel him rubbing his temples over the line. "Don't do this now."

"Do what?"

"Act like a child and ignore the real problem," he snaps.

I press my mouth into a thin line, sitting up on the chair. I consider hanging up right now and seeking help elsewhere but to do so I would have to walk back to the wall on extremely sore legs. Instead I go silent and hope he hangs up in frustration. No such luck- it's Frost after all.

"I didn't mean it," he apologises. "It's just..."

"Been a long day," I finish.

There's another pause.

"What are you trying to achieve here?" He asks quietly.

I sigh. "I can't go back and you know it. The only way I'm ever stepping foot in there again is if I redeem myself."

"You don't know that. The man's memory is as bad as his temper. He'll probably forget about the whole ordeal by the end of the week."

"No... it's different. It's not just another case of stealing his punchline. It's real bad."

"I could... Or maybe Harley... We can figure something out."

"It's not just going back, Frost. I need to... prove myself, I guess. Not just to him, to everyone out there." And to myself. "I need to prove that I'm capable, that I can do it and be better. I can't get another bomb and do it again but I can surprise them. I can do something. I can be something."

He doesn't tell me that I don't have to prove myself, like Harley would or that I shouldn't have to, like Ivy would. Both are lies told with love behind them. Frost, being Frost, understands what I need to hear exactly and so he says nothing.

"Is Harley okay?" I say quietly after a moment.

"Yeah," Frost says and my heart rate slows down again. "She beat the shit outta him."

I chuckle slightly. "She always does."

"She misses you. She's looking for you."

"Frost, stop trying to make me come back."

"I'm not. It's just... whatever you're planning, be careful. You're not in the best condition and-"

"I'm fine," I insist. I'm honestly sick of everyone thinking I'm not in control; that I don't know what I'm doing.

"Just don't get yourself killed."

I purse my lips.

"For Harley, at least. If you die... she'd be destroyed. She wouldn't be able to deal with it-"

"I wouldn't do that to her. I wouldn't put her through that," I say firmly.

He pauses, considering. "Okay then."

"You'll give me the clearance?" I say, delightedly grinning.

"Only if you swear not to be reckless. If you get caught breaking into Blackgate, I doubt there'll be anyone to break you out again."

"Would I do a thing like that?"

He sighs and reads the number out to me. Without a pen on hand, I dip my finger into some of the still-wet blood and trace the number onto the wall.

"Thanks, Frost." I stand from the chair, following the phone cord back to the wall, limping.

"Hey, you didn't get that from me. I don't want a bullet in the head for this phone call."

"What phone call?" I grin. Frost almost laughs.

Before I hang up, he speaks again. "Lucy... you're not alone."

"I won't be." I hang up before he can respond.

Turning to look at the number stained on the wall, I grin.

"Let's get to work."

 **Thanks for reading. Chapter 7 is in the works. Please review.**

 **-Spectre Specs**


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